The Time Traveller's Almanac

by Ann VanderMeer

  And the Clock ticked, shaking the Pendulum.

  He looked over his shoulder and watched the other platform and the catwalk moving rapidly upward and away from him. The acceleration became greater, and he felt his stomach lift within him as he traveled yet faster. The air rushed past his face, and he tried to draw his attention from the distressing physical sensations. The bulk of his body, tiny though it was in relation to the Bob, disturbed the flow of the air, breaking the current into smaller eddies. As the new vibration tried to impose itself on the old, the Pendulum groaned with tearing dissonance. Then, abruptly, the note broke up to its second partial, and the sound was now bright, ringing and intense. As the Bob began to level out, his stomach felt a little more normal, and he squatted down to make the adjustment. The platform on which he was squatting was slung at the lowest part of the Bob, and hung down below. At the very lowest point of the Bob was fitted the Adjustment Weight, for making the incredibly small adjustments to the frequency of the Pendulum’s swing. A piece of thin metal rod was fixed from the Bob, hanging downward. This rod was scored across at regular intervals, about a quarter of an inch apart, and attached about halfway down was a small weight, of about an ounce, with a sprung clip that attached to one of the grooves in the rod. The Meter had read minus two; this meant that the weight had to be slid two spaces upward. Obviously the Clock was running slow by an infinitesimal amount, and this adjustment would correct its running. As he put out his hand the Pendulum began to rise on its upward swing, and his arm felt heavy and approached the weight much lower than it should have done.

  He paused as the nausea gripped him again. After a few seconds the feeling began to diminish as the Pendulum reached its high point. He knew better than to attempt to adjust the weight at this moment.

  The Clock ticked, vibrating the Pendulum, and almost throwing him on to his back. He gripped the brass rail and waited for the wrenching of his stomach as he fell in the sweeping arc. The Pendulum began to move downward. The adjustment would have to be made this time; he knew that he would be incapable of standing more than one complete swing of the Pendulum. Air rushed past him as he dropped with the Bob and he gritted his teeth against the sickness that rose inside. At least the new high note of the Pendulum did not buzz in his head as would have done the fundamental. As the Pendulum leveled out, he reached out and grasped the weight. He pushed upward, and the weight moved up slowly with a double click. He tested it with a light pull, and then sighed with relief and began to stand, fighting the downward push caused by the upward motion of the Bob.

  At the top of the swing he stepped on to the platform before the tick of the Clock commenced its vibration. His legs were shaking as he began to climb down the iron rungs.

  As he walked across the floor of the Well his mind was feverishly calculating. Would he still have time to sound the wheels before his next task? He clambered down the narrow tunnel into the lift. His next task was the Winding, and he tried not to think of this. It was a task that took about an hour of his time every day, and left him a weak, trembling old man. Even so, he still sometimes wondered how it was that such a comparatively small amount of energy could sustain the vast mechanism all about him. From his fuddled memory he vaguely recalled that on similar occasions, the whistle had blown shortly after he had arrived in the Great Chamber.

  As the lift arrived at the top of its shaft, the Clock ticked, the sound of it jangling afterwards in his ears, contrasting with the sounds of the Pendulum Well. Here, the noises were all about him again; the grinding of the cogs, the humming of the Fast Wheel; the oil smells and the sharp tang of metal were in his nostrils again. His trolley was there, as he had left it. He began to walk across the floor, dust rising in clouds about him as he moved. He reached the trolley and grasped his hammer, ready for sounding the next wheel, and he used a small hammer that could comfortably be held in one hand. He swung the hammer and struck the wheel.

  The whistle screamed, drowning all other sounds. He groaned out loud. The whistle stopped, and he stood there, hammer in hand, wanting to strike the wheel again. Why could not the whistle have blown one second later? At least he would have been able to hear this wheel. He almost swung at the wheel again, but he could not; it was time for the Winding. He felt tears springing to his eyes at the unfairness of it all. He was old, and tired... He walked across to the Posterior Wall and slid open the panel that led to the Winding Room.

  The Clock ticked.

  This was only a small room and it was lined with planks like the others. It was completely featureless save for the Winding Handle which was set into the far wall and projected out into the room. He stepped inside and grasped the Handle. He put his weight on to it and it gradually moved downward, a ratchet clicking rapidly somewhere behind the wall. When the Handle was at its lowest extent, he slightly released the pressure and it rose up under his hands to its original position. He pressed down again. He would wind until the whistle blew again, a period he estimated to be about an hour, but a very long hour indeed. After the Winding he would be allowed a short time from his labor for lunch. Perhaps he could sound the remaining wheels in his lunch time?

  The Clock ticked.

  This would mean that he would miss his mash. He didn’t mind about that too much; what really worried him was that he would miss his valuable rest period. The handle rose under his hands to its highest position. He was worried about the afternoon; how could he work if he missed his rest? He was weak enough now. He pressed down the handle. Sweat was beginning to run down his forehead; he felt terrible. Surely, at one time he had not felt so weak and tired. At one time?

  At what time? For a second he was distracted from his task.

  He slipped.

  His foot went from under him and he fell forward, toward the handle. His hands slid from it and it swung up, catching him under the chin and throwing him backward on to the floor.

  Lights flashed under his eyelids and his head buzzed, cutting out all other sound. When he came to he found that he was standing in the Great Chamber, swaying slightly.

  Where was he?

  For the first time his routine had been upset. The blow had jogged his mind from its well-worn paths. He realized that all the events of this day had conspired to open his senses to this apocalypse.

  He looked about himself in amazement.

  All was as it had been; the Fast Wheel hummed to itself and the cogs moved round at their various speeds.

  But now the Clock mechanism looked alien and frightening to him as he regarded it with eyes unclouded by time.

  How had he got here?

  The stench of his own excrement arose from the corner of the Great Chamber, mixed with the acrid tang of the metal that surrounded him.

  His head moved from side to side as he tried to see everything at once.

  The Clock ticked, unexpectedly, causing him to clap his hands to his ears.

  He had been so frightened; what had forced him to carry out these awful duties that had wasted so much of his life? He walked across to the far end of the Great Chamber and looked at the bones in the corner. He could see about four complete skeletons among the crumbling fragments of many others. They were all supported on a billowing pile of dust that came from innumerable others. Were these the bones of the others, who, before him, had tended the Clock? Did they, one day, suddenly know that their time was up, and did they, obeying a dim and contrived instinct, slowly, painfully drag themselves over to the pile and quietly lie upon it? And then did the next person come here and immediately settle into his ritual of duties, ignoring the twitching bundle in the corner, and later the odor of its corruption?

  He walked back to his pallet and sat on it, burying his face in his hands. When he came to the Clock, was there a body in the corner? Did he sit in the Small Chamber eating his mash whilst the air was full of the taint of death?

  What was his life before he came here?

  Who was he?

  He could not remember. Nor could he remember how long
he had been here. He felt round the back of his head; his hair was hanging down almost to his shoulders. He estimated from this that he had been inside the Clock for a whole year of his life. He remembered something else. His age. He was twenty-five years old.

  Twenty-five?

  Then why was he so weak and tired?

  Something wrong made a shudder crawl its way down his back. His hands had been registering something for some time, and now he consciously accepted their message. His hands told him that the skin hung loose and wrinkled round his face. His hands told him that his features were covered by wrinkled and flaccid parchment.

  He sat up on the pallet in fear. He suddenly pulled out a little clump of hair, bringing tears to his eyes. But the tears did not obscure his vision completely, and he could see that the hair was snowy white. He looked up in agony.

  “I’m old!”

  The Clock ticked.

  “I’m old...”

  He looked down at his body. It was the body of an old, old man.

  He slowly stood and then staggered to one of the supporting columns. He embraced the column, resting his cheek against the golden surface. His hand stroked the smooth metal of the column’s surface, almost as if he were caressing a woman. He giggled.

  “Look at me,” he muttered to the Clock. “Look what you’ve done to me!”

  The Fast Wheel hummed; the cogs turned.

  “You’ve taken my life! I was young when I came here a year ago! Young! What have you done?”

  His voice had become high and quavering and was swallowed in the sounds of the Clock.

  “Oh God!” he said, and slumped against the column. He stayed there a long time, thinking. He was going to have his revenge. The Clock would run down, with no one to wind it. It would die, without him.

  The Clock ticked, and he pushed his shoulders from the column, standing erect. He began to walk round the Great Chamber, putting out his hand here, stroking a wheel there. He blew kisses to the Fast Wheel and ran his flat hand gently over the surface of the Great Wheel. Wheedling, coquettish, he minced extravagantly through the Great Chamber, quietly talking to the Clock.

  “Why?” he said. “Why? I’ve given you my life; what have you given in return? You have taken eighty years from me—what have you done with them? Are they stored vilely away in a cupboard? If I searched long enough, could I find them, stacked on a shelf? Could I put out my hands and slip them on, like clothes? Eh? Why did you steal them?”

  His muttering suddenly became ominous in tone.

  “I’ll fix you; I won’t even give you the pleasure of running quietly down, as you would have done with me. Oh no, my friend, you shall die violently; I’ll show you no quarter.’

  He moved across to the trolley. He painfully lifted off the largest of the hammers and dragged it to the floor. A wheel of moderate size, about four feet across, was quite near to him. With all his strength he swung the hammer in a low arc and relaxed only as it smashed into the wheel. The giant hammer broke off one of the cogs completely, and bent part of the wheel at an impossible angle. He dropped the hammer, and, filled with emotion, crammed his fists against his opened mouth.

  The Clock ticked.

  He found that he was weeping; why, he didn’t understand.

  The cog turned slowly, the damaged section moving nearer to its inevitable interaction with another wheel. He screwed up his eyes, and felt the warm tears running freely down his face.

  “I’ve killed you,” he said. He stood, thin, bleached and naked, paralysed and sobbing. Something would happen soon.

  The damaged section interacted.

  The wrecked cog spun suddenly and rapidly before its teeth engaged again. A shower of sparks flew out, burning his flesh. He started, both at the pain and at the sheer noise of that dreadful contact. At the threshold of his hearing, far below the other sounds of the Clock, he could hear the buckling of metal, the scraping of part on part. The other wheel buckled and spun in its turn. A spring burst from somewhere behind the wheel and scattered metal splinters all over the Chamber. Strange smells were in the air; the death-smells of the Clock.

  A trail of damage was running across the mechanism of the Clock like an earthquake fissure running across land. It could not be seen, and outwardly practically everything was normal, but his ears could hear the changes in what had been familiar sounds. The grinding and destruction spreading like a canker could be heard clearly enough.

  The Clock ticked, and even the tick sounded slightly weaker.

  Louder and louder came the sounds of invisible destruction. He stood, still weeping, shaking as if with fever. The changed sounds of the Clock plunged him into a new and unfamiliar world.

  A different sound made him look up. Above him the Fast Wheel was running eccentrically. It was wavering from side to side in its supports, oil spurting from its reservoirs. As it spun, it whined, jarringly.

  Abruptly it broke free of its supports and, still whining, it dropped to the floor. It screamed as it hit the floor and was covered by the roaring flame of its friction. And then it was gone, only the hint of a bright streak in the air indicating its trajectory. It smashed into the far wall scattering dust from the bones as the wooden wall dissolved into splintering wreckage.

  An uluation came from the Small Chamber. Inside, the mass of wheels screamed as they were tortured by the new disorder spreading through their myriad ranks. The Clock shook in its ague, shivering itself to death. Suddenly through the open door of the Small Chamber came the wheels, thousands of them. The Great Chamber was full of smooth silver wheels, some broken and flying through the air, others rolling lazily.

  The Clock ticked, gratingly, and then screamed again. The Escapement Mechanism jammed rigid, but the Pendulum wanted to continue its swing. It did, bending its great four-foot-diameter column in a grotesque shape.

  Dust was everywhere, flying metal whistled about his ears. As the sound became unbelievable the destruction became complete.

  His last sight was of light streaming brightly in as the whole Clock collapsed in a mass of falling wood and metal cogs.

  3

  And it was everybody else’s last sight, too. They may, for a brief period, have seen their world freezing itself in grotesque lack of activity. They may have seen water, solidifying in its fall to complete immobility; they may have seen birds flying through air that was like treacle, finally coming to rest above the ground; they may even have seen their own faces beginning to register terror, but never completing the expression...

  But after that, there was no time to see anything.

  TRAVELLER’S REST

  David I. Masson

  David I. Masson was a British science fiction writer and librarian.The Caltraps of Time is his only short story collection, containing all of his fiction, all of the stories he published in New Worlds, and three additional stories. “Traveller’s Rest” was originally published in 1965 in New Worlds magazine.

  It was an apocalyptic sector. Out of the red-black curtain of the forward sight-barrier, which at this distance from the Frontier shut down a mere twenty metres north, came every sort of meteoric horror: fission and fusion explosions, chemical detonations, a super-hail of projectiles of all sizes and basic velocities, sprays of nerve-paralysants and thalamic dopes. The impact devices burst on the barren rock of the slopes or the concrete of the forward stations, some of which were disintegrated or eviscerated every other minute. The surviving installations kept up an equally intense and nearly vertical fire of rockets and shells. Here and there a protectivized figure could be seen sprinting up, down or along the slopes on its mechanical walker like a frantic ant from an anthill attacked by flamethrowers. Some of the visible oncoming trajectories could be seen snaking overhead into the indigo gloom of the rear sight-curtain, perhaps fifty metres south, which met the steep-falling rock surface forty-odd metres below the observer’s eye. The whole scene was as if bathed in a gigantic straight rainbow. East and west, as far as the eye could see, perhaps some forty mi
les in this clear mountain air despite the debris of explosion (but cut off to west by a spur from the range) the visibility-corridor witnessed a continual onslaught and counter-onslaught of devices. The visible pandemonium was shut in by the sight-barriers’ titanic canyon walls of black, reaching the slim pale strip of horizon-spanning light at some immense height. The audibility-corridor was vastly wider than that of sight; the many-pitched din, even through left ear in helm, was considerable.

  “Computer-sent, must be,” said H’s transceiver into his right ear. No sigil preceded this statement, but H knew the tones of B, his next-up, who in any case could be seen a metre away saying it, in the large concrete bubble whence they watched, using a plaspex window and an infrared northviewer with a range of some hundreds of metres forward. His next-up had been in the bunker for three minutes, apparently overchecking, probably for an appreciation to two-up who might be in station VV now.

  “Else how can they get minutely impacts here, you mean?” said H.

  “Well, of course it could be long range low-frequency – we don’t really know how Time works over There.”

  “But if the conceleration runs asymptotically to the Frontier, as it should if Their Time works in mirror-image, would anything ever have got over?”

  “Doesn’t have to, far’s I can see – maybe it steepens a lot, then just falls back at the same angle the other Side,” said B’s voice; “anyway, I didn’t come to talk science: I’ve news for you, if we hold out the next few seconds here, you’re Relieved.”

  H felt a black inner sight-barrier beginning to engulf him, and a roaring in his ears swallowed up the noise of the bombardment. He bent double as his knees began to buckle, and regained full consciousness. He could see his replacement now, an uncertain-looking figure in prot-suit (like everybody else up here) at the far side of the bunker.